The Women's March on Washington D.C.: Fighting for Democracy, Equality, Freedom, and Truth

Last weekend I flew with my two teenage daughters from Vancouver B.C. to Washington D.C. to participate in the Women's March on Washington. I expected large crowds and was a little nervous about the prospect of violence in a city brimming with Trump supporters there for his inauguration and Trump loathers there for the March. Despite voicing these concerns, my 16-year-old wouldn't hear of it: We were going. At 16 I moved from Oregon to Washington D.C. to be a Congressional Page. I was excited to return to the city with my daughter now the same age as I'd been, and to participate in the March, so we went.

We woke at 6:30AM on March Day, too excited to miss a thing. With no coffee shop nearby, we skipped breakfast to taxi as close and quickly as possible to the site of the rally, arriving shortly after 7AM. We were within shouting distance of the stage, left of center, and the crowd quickly filled in around and behind us. Realizing we hadn't eaten and would be stuck there for at least another six hours, I asked a woman nearby where she'd gotten her coffee, memorized the people and signs we were by, and told the kids to stay put. I struggled to walk the opposite direction of the growing crowd for a long block before breaking onto a side street where there were 30+ minute lines of people waiting to get food and coffee. I was amazed: Despite the enormous crowd and obviously scarce resources -- the food and coffee could easily run out by the time you reached the front of the line -- everyone seemed patient, kind, and happy. Even the people working hard to serve everyone seemed joyful and excited.

An hour later, a bag of food and coffee in hand, I faced the daunting task of finding my kids again by navigating a crowd that had at least tripled in size since I left them. No longer could I re-enter where I'd exited; I had to walk two blocks further down to enter the crowd where it was still forming, then wend my way three blocks back through thousands of people. "Excuse me!" "Sorry!" my Canadianized American self said as I made my way, occasionally explaining to a quizzical onlooker that I was trying to find my kids, which only made the crowd part even more to make way for me. White women, black women, Latinas, transgender people, young people and old, their friends, their partners, men -- a sea of pink hats, color, and witty signs exuded excitement, positive tension, and collective love. As I got closer to the stage I recognized a guy in a blue-green hoodie who'd been standing near us. There were my daughters, looking happy and relieved to see me.

The excitement and cheering grew as we waited for the official rally to begin at 10AM. An earth ball was tossed back and forth through the crowd. The rally opened with a Native American woman singing with a drum, calling on ancestors to protect us during the march. I cannot find an official report of her name or Nation; a comment online identifies her as Norine Hill, a citizen of the Oneida Nation. It felt like there was an endless line-up of amazing speakers, and we never knew who was coming next. It was amazing to see Gloria Steinem, at 82 committed as ever, say "Sometimes we need to put our bodies where our beliefs are. Sometimes pressing 'send' is not enough." I tried to live Tweet and Facebook my photos and their quotes, but there was no data available. Everyone around us was having the same problem. One of my daughters thought Trump might have ordered the data turned off -- how sadly cynical and what a testament to his perceived power -- but there was probably too much demand on the service.

Michael Moore offered practical advice for resistance, telling us to call our congresspeople everyday (after eating breakfast) and run for office ourselves. He went on too long, though, and his mic was turned off as Ashley Judd started a fiery "nasty woman" rap. Van Jones spoke with love and compassion, encouraging us to not let this make us hate or be hateful, but to remember that "Real love is the most powerful force in the universe --  Momma Bear Love -- when it gets harder to love, we need to love harder." I was especially moved by the newer insights, at least to me, offered by lesser-known speakers, such as Donna Hylton, who was incarcerated for 27 years and promised herself she would not forget her sisters when she got out; Melissa Mays, an Environmental Justice Activist from Flint Michigan who spoke about the Flint Water Crisis; the fearless Sophie Cruz, an 8-year-old immigrant rights activist; and J. Bob Alotta, Executive Director at the Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice, who was witty and wise.

For me the most emotionally moving moment of the rally was when mothers who lost sons to police brutality stood on stage together: Sybrina Fulton, mother of Trayvon Martin, Maria Hamilton, mother of Dontre Hamilton, Gwen Carr, mother of Eric Garner, and Lucia McBath, mother of Jordan Davis. After "Hell You Talmbout" was started in song, the mothers took turns saying their son's name. Sybrina Fulton said, "Trayvon Martin!" and the crowd shouted, "Say his name!" over and over. "Trayvon Martin!" "Say his name!" The names of others who died in police custody were also called out -- "Sandra Bland!" "Say her name!" "Sandra Bland!" "Say her name!" and the names went on and on and on.

Throughout the speeches, culminating in this most heartbreaking of pain, the bond uniting all of us became clear: We were fighting for the right to control our bodies, and thus our lives. "If you don't control your body, you don't control your life," was said in various forms by different speakers.

• If you don't control your body because you don't have clean air to breathe
• If you don't control your body because you don't have clean water to drink
• If you don't control your body because you're sick and have no health insurance
• If you don't control your body because you're disabled and the world makes no room for you
• If you don't control your body because of sexual violence
• If you don't control your body because you can't terminate an unwanted pregnancy
• If you don't control your body because at any moment you can be pulled over, arrested, or have your life taken away through state-sanctioned violence because you're black
• If you don't control your body because you're incarcerated

          ...you don't control your life.

We're resisting state control over our bodies; the use of physical force and social violence to limit and control us, as women, as minorities, as queers, as disabled, as poor. When moral authority is lost, control is exercised through force.

After six hours of standing in the same spot, and the program running much longer than scheduled, people were getting antsy to march. The crowd began shouting "March! March! March!" and the organizers began telling us there were still great speakers and surprises left, they would cut the mic after 30 seconds (though it was almost impossible to do), and encouraged us to stay. Alicia Keys was a surprise who brought life back to the audience, and Angela Davis brought roars from the crowd, but more and more speakers kept coming and by 2:20PM those standing around us started moving east toward 3rd Street, around the National Museum of the American Indian toward The Mall.

Independence Avenue was impenetrably dense so people kept walking along 3rd, past the Capitol onto Constitution Avenue, which was so packed we moved to Pennsylvania Avenue, which was not the designated march route but was now filled brim-to-brim with marchers. A unstoppable tsunami of pink hats and unique signs filled every street around the Mall. The same spirit of unity, mutual support and respect, continued the whole way. Men were everywhere among us, old and young, white and black. It felt like our humanity was one yet we were all unique, and we were loving both those realities. Chants included "Show me what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like! Show me what America looks like! This is what America looks like!," "We will not go away. Welcome to your first day!," and spontaneous singing of "Lean On Me" by the crowd, which sounded pretty amazing sung by that many voices.

As we walked down Pennsylvania Avenue we shouted out to the Canadian Embassy, cheered the Newseum, and I saw the Old Post Office in the distance. I told my daughters how their dad and I, when we worked in D.C. after college, used to go there to eat Indian food and enjoy the beautiful old building and shops. As we approached it we heard people chanting "Shame! Shame! Shame!" and saw police officers guarding its perimeter. It had a new sign outside and a feeling of horror came over me: The sign read "Trump International Hotel." It felt like I was in a futuristic movie in which
a villain had bought the world and its power.

We saw high bleachers off to the right and climbed up to get a view of the crowd (captured above), which reached as far as the eye could see, a wave from the Capitol and to the White House. We rejoined the crowd and turned right on 15th because we had to -- a wide area around the White House was off-limits -- and the march kept going up into the city, dispersing around K Street.

It was now after 4PM. Our feet were hurting and we had not eaten or gone to the bathroom all day. We went into a CVS Pharmacy to grab a snack. The aisles were full of people and there was a 20-minute line-up for each cash register, but people were still jubilant, patient, and friendly; even the people working there were welcoming, calm, and helpful. There wasn't the stress or irritation you might expect after such a long day and in such a large crowd.

The line for Metro Station was a block long in either direction and about six people wide, so taking the subway home was out. We walked 30 more minutes to meet friends for dinner at 18th and S Street NW. Along the way my younger daughter found a statue of Samuel Hahnemann and left her pussy hat on his head. People cheered and took photos. Later we taxied to meet friends on 4th Place SW, then went home and watched SNL.

The next day we met my niece at the National Museum of African American History and Culture, which was sold out and packed with people, an incredible experience and so very relevant to why we had just marched the day before. There was the same feeling of love and understanding among people there, and most everywhere we went in D.C., except when we were spotted by the occasional Trump supporter wearing a "Make America Great Again" hat, though no words were exchanged. Vendors effused when hearing we were there for the March, thanked us for marching, and said they felt hopeful that so many had come to stand up for civil rights.

Our last stop out of town was showing my kids my old neighborhoods. I showed them where I lived as a Congressional Page on The Hill, the Capitol Building I used to work in, and the House and Senate Office Buildings I walked miles and miles in on marble floors until my feet hurt (taking the occasional underground train). I showed them the Library of Congress where I went to school from 6-9AM before working, sometimes well into the night, as a teen. I showed them the Supreme Court. We went to 3rd and G Street NE near Union Station, where their father and I lived after college. Much had changed. The Baptist Church with the beautiful singing up the street was gone. The ramshackle corner store across the street was gone, where men used to sit outside in lawn chairs shooting the breeze, and one memorably asked me after I accidentally dropped a box fan out our 3rd floor window, "What's wrong with the fan, honey?" Gone were those people and that neighborhood feeling. It felt sanitized by new paint and a new upscale coffee shop. But it was Washington D.C., where people gather to try and change the world.